Page 44 of Reaper
I cross the room to the small circular table. The terminal is dark. The hard drive containing the Ares forensic audit sitssquarely in the center of the table, next to a cheap motel stationery pad.
Wyatt's combat knife is gone. His sidearm is gone.
I'm not leaving.
The vow echoes in the quiet room. He said it. He meant it. I felt the absolute, desperate truth of it when his hands were on me, when he finally stripped away the armor and let me see the man beneath the ghost.
I walk to the door. The deadbolt is unlocked.
I push the heavy door open and step out into the freezing air of the parking lot.
The rain has stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and black. Two massive, matte-black SUVs idle near the edge of the lot, their headlights cut. Four men in full tactical gear stand near the tree line, suppressed rifles slung across their chests. The heavy, metallic smell of diesel exhaust hangs in the damp air.
Frost stands by the passenger door of the lead vehicle. He turns at the sound of the motel door opening.
He doesn't look like the man I spent three days with at the safe house. The casual, protective warmth is gone, replaced by a rigid, cold professionalism. He looks exactly like the commander of a black-ops element.
I walk toward him, the laces of my boots dragging over the wet gravel.
"Where is he?" My voice shakes, but it isn't from the cold.
"He's gone." Frost meets my gaze. His eyes are dark, guarded, and laced with a bitter exhaustion.
"Gone? What do you mean gone?" The words hit me like a physical blow, punching the air out of my lungs. "He wouldn't just leave."
"He geared up and walked into the timber two hours ago." Frost's jaw tightens. "He handed over the job. You're secure. The intel is secure. And he walked away."
"No. You're lying. Or you're wrong. He wouldn't abandon me." I shake my head, refusing to let the panic take root.
"He walked out. Looked me right in the eye and said he had business to handle." The tactical commander bleeds out of Frost's voice, leaving a raw, jagged anger. "He's a ghost. He operates in the dark. You can't drag a man like that into the light and expect him to stay."
"You don't understand him. He isn't the unredeemable monster you think he is. He wouldn't cut ties." I cross my arms over the damp thermal, fighting a violent tremor in my hands.
"He's a killer." Frost's voice drops, harsh and uncompromising. "You saw it on the mountain. He's lethal, and he's broken. He did his job, he kept you breathing, and then he cut ties before he had to face the reality of living with you." Frost holds my stare, uncompromising and cold.
I stare at him. The absolute certainty in his eyes makes me physically sick. He believes it. He truly believes his own brother is that far gone.
I turn my back on him.
"Get your things. We're moving you to a secure facility." Frost's command follows me as I turn my back.
I don't answer. I walk back into the motel room and slam the door shut.
The silence presses in on me again. The red light from the clock. The empty bed.
I'm not leaving.
My mind races, tearing through the data, the timeline, the variables. I'm a forensic accountant. I don't operate on emotion. I operate on evidence. I track numbers. I find anomalies. I follow the thread until the truth unravels.
Wyatt didn't leave because he's broken.
He left because he believes he has to.
I walk back to the circular table. The terminal. The hard drive. The motel stationery pad.
I stare at the pad. The cheap ballpoint pen rests in the center of the top sheet. The sheet is completely blank.
He handed over the job. You're secure. The intel is secure.
